


Thirty-One

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>2006</p>
    </blockquote>





	Thirty-One

**Author's Note:**

> 2006

Dinner on location in a trailer, one of those big metal things that boiled you during the day and you needed a hundred fucking blankets at night. Even the bugs knew better, the fizz pop stopping outside as soon as the sun went down, bringing their little buzzing asses in to fly by his ear to be batted away as he smacked himself in the face. Fuckers.

Steaks so rare the knife slipped through them and his mouth watered as he bit down, eyes closing for a second. Perfect. Sharing Marlboros and tequila and the taste of each other that never goes away, not really. Laughing in between kisses and bites that take his breath away, calling names and curses into the air as fingers pressed just _so_ and as nails scored his back, dug into his hips and dragged him closer.

The end of a week in the mountains, living on craft services, warm tequila and the best fucking coffee he’d ever tasted in his life. His second movie and he knows already he doesn’t much like it. Hours sitting doing nothing except maybe waiting, cause they needed him there, they just weren’t sure when. Lights and dust and no guitar cause it fucks with the sound.

But then there were the breaks, the five minutes snatched here and there and the hours spent under scratchy sheets in a too small bedroom, the windows steaming up and probably no sound proofing either. Not giving a damn and sure that Chris isn’t either.

The frame under them squeaking, biting back a laugh when his knee hits the wall, swallowing down a moan when Chris’ tongue flicks over the head of his cock, sucks him into his mouth, fucking _hums_ around him. Chris’ make up left in bright smears across his thigh, a fake bruise to match the one he’ll have there in the morning as Chris sucks and bites, whispers I want you into his skin.

Waiting for the knock that will drag them from this, from each other, cause neither of them can judge time worth a shit. Watches thrown into the corner like that will stop time, hell, slow it a little even, give them a chance to be, to do something other than fuck. Missing that and the couch and the bar with the booths out back and the lake and the damn fish that never bit.

Missing that yes, but glad all the same that he was here, that they were here. That they had mornings and night times and the time in between. That he could see that Chris knew he’d done the right thing, just music and movies and TV can go fuck itself. No longer carrying that look, that tiredness he had before.

Now there was just Chris falling into their room and into the bathroom and into bed to wrap himself around him to whisper I missed you and fall into the deepest sleep, all warm breath and wandering hands. But still there was a lightness he’d not seen in years; this was what Chris wanted to do, chose to leave LA for, what he’d packed all his shit up and hauled ass to Nashville for.

For this. For him.

So when that knock comes, tells them they have twenty, times slows or maybe they just do. Twenty will do just fine, twenty is all the time in the world. Urgency giving way to him and Chris and kisses and hands that always know where; to promises of later and their late weekend, of room service and not answering the phone to anyone. And when they come it’s pressed together, hands trapped between them, knuckles digging into bellies and lazy kisses, Chris’ fingers wrapped in his hair.

 

Morning mist curling silently around the trees that lined the road to the hotel, waiting to be burnt away in the weak sunshine as it crawls up from behind the buildings.

Falling together at dawn into warm sheets, legs tangled in jeans and a comforter that takes three good kicks to get it in the floor. Rolled to find his face full of feathers and cotton, fists curling in the sheets as Chris bites _Feliz Cumpleaños_ between his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back, kissing _Happy Birthday_ across the crease of his thighs, licking _old man_ over his ankle. 

The _pfft_ in reply lost as Chris' tongue paints the perfect line along the back of his calf and thigh. Turning, to catch a breath, bite at the lips that hover so close to his, pushing back and rolling, pinning Chris under grabbing hands.

“My birthday remember?” 

“Yesterday…it’s tomorrow now…”

Tomorrow and the tomorrow after that before the next knock at the door and the car that he’ll watch disappear from the bedroom window.


End file.
